


cat's eye

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Brothels, Cunnilingus, F/M, Future Fic, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brothel is the last place he expected to find her, but found his sister he has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cat's eye

**Author's Note:**

> From the kinkmeme prompt: Robb/Sansa - Sansa escapes King's Landing and Littlefinger hides her in one of his brothels in the Riverlands. After a battle, Robb and his bannermen go to said brothel to celebrate. They both pretend they don't recognize each other until the morning. 
> 
> (It ended up more Littlefinger directing Robb where to find her after the War, though. S-sorry?)

She thinks to fool him.

Her hair is nut brown, hanging long and loose but for where it’s held back at her face by an intricate lacework of silver, a style that the Sansa Robb had known would never wear. She’s taller now, much taller; he thinks if he stood next to her she would look him almost in the eye. Her own eyes are darkened with kohl, thick lines swooping up at the corners to give her cat’s eyes, and she looks much like a cat, still and sensual and assessing, a hint of a smile on the lips that have been rouged to match her pinked cheeks. She moves gracefully, sinuously, only the barest hitch betraying her, a slight hesitance that shows her to wear her seduction as a costume. She is soiled and smudged only as much as her eyes, a cosmetic that could be wiped away to show her clean beneath. She may live in this place, she may play a part in it and act like she belongs, but she is not of it. She belongs here no more than a bird belongs in the sea. 

A brothel is the last place he expected to find her, but found his sister he has.

“She’s not for sale,” the proprietor had grunted to Robb when he’d inquired her name, gesturing at her across the room where she sat strumming a lap harp, accompanying herself with a softly-sung tune and closing her eyes against the stares all around her. He’d seen her almost the second he walked in the door – he might have seen her instantly even if he hadn’t come here expressly to look for her at Littlefinger’s direction – and his heart had taken up a painful thudding in his chest at the sight of her after so long, at the knowledge that she was real and here and almost within his reach. She’d looked sweet and sad and soft, a girl you could tell your troubles to, who would cradle you to her breast and take you in her body’s sweet embrace to make you forget. Robb saw why every man stared, he understood the hunger they felt for her, no matter who was already in their laps or on their arms. She is all too easy to hunger for, after all, and Robb has wanted her for forever, and has convinced himself he doesn’t for forever less a day.

It had been the first time he’d ever touched her in any way not befitting a brother, that long ago day in Winterfell. He doesn’t fully remember what happened now, the memory grown vague with time, and dusty from disuse after being hidden away even from himself from the moment it happened. It was just before King Robert had come to Winterfell to ask their father to be his Hand, before the King had changed all of their lives. It exists in Robb’s memory as something close to a dream, hazy and ill-defined, the two of them on their own for once, no Jon or Arya or Bran with them, only Robb and Sansa and their wolf pups, running and laughing together in the gardens. He remembers the sun and the wind through the leaves and how his joy had bubbled over so within him that he could only kiss her to express it, the inexpert press of their lips chaste at first, but softening and changing to hold something deeper and sweeter. It stirred a sick-sweet ache in his gut, a tantalizing hint of more that he wanted desperately to chase down and catch. Their mother had found them before he could seek more, she had made a harsh sound and clapped her hands together, like they were fighting dogs in want of separation. 

“That may work for the Targaryens,” she’d said as if in humor, “But we are _not_ Targaryens.” Robb had heard the severity under it, the warning. He’d heard that warning and had known something within him was wrong and then they’d gone away, all of them and Sansa with them with barely a goodbye, her eyes averted from his as if she knew the same wrongness, and he’d done his best to bury everything somewhere so deep that even he couldn’t find it.

So he knows why every man wants her. And he knows that while they may want her, they’ll not have her, not when she belongs to him.

“Not for sale,” the man had repeated more emphatically when Robb fixed him with a hard stare.

“I did not ask her price,” Robb growled, his chin lowered in challenge. “I asked her name.”

Undaunted, the man had grunted and waggled his fingers dismissively. “There a price for that too and neither are for sale, never have been. Besides, she’s being held now for some great Lord with a great bloody beast who’ll rip my throat out if she’s not kept safe, and I have that on promise.”

Robb had smiled. It seemed Littlefinger’s word was still good for some things. But then Robb had learned that Petyr Baelish had always been a soft touch when it came to Catelyn Tully or anything attached to her memory, all the moreso for the daughter who looked so much like her, and he’d learned, too, that Baelish had the same healthy fear of a grown direwolf as any man and could be persuaded of quite a lot with the proper encouragement.

“The great beast is elsewhere,” Robb said, casually pulling his direwolf clasp from within his cloak to allow the man to look on it with suddenly wide eyes and a dawning realization, before concealing it again. “But I would have had your throat out just the same, make no mistake.”

She’d been delivered to his room within minutes, gliding quietly through the door before he’d even set down his cloak after removing it from his shoulders. She moves about the room now, lighting candles with a taper, the thin bangles on her arms chiming musically. Her gown is light, filmy and insubstantial. It skims her body like cobwebs, clinging and drifting, covering her only in the strictest definition of the word, as it conceals nothing of the body beneath. Robb can’t stop watching her. It’s shameful that he’s seeing his sister for the first time in years upon years and he can only think to possess her for his own, rather than protect her and make her safe. Shameful that he could forget that this willowy young woman is his sister, forget it even as it’s the only thing in his mind.

She knows him, though she pretends she doesn’t. He can see it in the flicker of her eyes, the way they roam over every bit of him as if she’s afraid he isn’t real. But she doesn’t say his name, does not touch him or reveal his identity – perhaps thinking it safer – and only says, “Have you a name, milord?” the honorific slurred so carefully that Robb thinks even a man only the barest bit addled by drink or lust would take it as genuine, would make no question of her birth or provenance. They wouldn’t see the regal set of her chin or the delicate way she tilts her wrists. They would see only a girl they wish to possess, in a place they think means she’s there for the possessing. They don’t see who she truly is, not the way Robb does. Her face hasn’t been haunting their dreams for longer than they can remember. Robb would know her any place, any time, no matter her disguise.

“Aye, I have a name,” he says. “Have you?” She smiles at him, and it’s all too potent, part of the costume she wears as much as her bangles and kohl and dress made of air.

“I’ve whatever name you wish me to have,” she answers. He almost calls her by her true name then, Sansa, the word sitting on his tongue as a sibilant hiss, but the tremble in her hands as she sips wine from a goblet stops him, the look in her eyes full of a desperate longing that stirs his own. She sets down her glass and moves to stand before him, raising one slender hand to his jaw, touching the growth of his beard, a beard he’d not had when she saw him last on the day she left Winterfell, the day she left _him_ , before they had lost everything and each remained all the other had in the world. He leans into her touch, feels the silk of her gown at his fingertips when he lifts them to hover at her waist. It is all still innocent, still true and chaste, a brother’s reunion with his sister no matter how they play at pretending they’re strangers, that he has come to possess her as a woman and she has come to be possessed. There is no wrong in it, not yet, and Robb knows he should keep it that way, should confess himself and rip away the veil they’ve deliberately shrouded themselves in. But then she kisses him and he’s missed her so very much, he’s kept her in his dreams and wanted and wished, so instead he draws the veil more tightly. He is a Lord and was once a King, he’s killed men and waged wars and lain with women who were almost as beautiful as this girl before him, but he’s powerless at her game and wishes only to submit to it, to live inside it forever and bind her to him in whatever way he can.

Their kisses are like wildfire, devastating and all-consuming, leaving them two burning shells as they struggle to get closer to one another. He has never tasted anything like her mouth, no other woman could compare and no other woman could ever sate him now that he knows all seven heavens in the taste of her, in the sweet press of her lips and tongue.

“If it please milord,” she breathes, and he misses her mouth even for the moment it takes her to say the words, the distance that exists between their bodies when she pulls away to slip her gown from her shoulders seeming like leagues. She stands bare before him, more beautiful than anything he’s ever seen. His hands go to her breasts without his invitation or permission, they curve over her and feel her heart beating strong as a drum, bright and alive, she’s alive and so is he and for this night they’ll be alive together, no matter the consequences.

“It pleases me greatly,” he rasps, then he dips his head to her shoulder, traces the delicate line of her collarbone with an equally delicate tongue. If he’d had any doubts at how deep her costume went in this place, they’d be banished by the shiver she gives at his touch, at the small, high sound she makes that’s not at all crafted to stoke a man’s desire, only to express her own stunned pleasure. She makes it again when he strokes her belly, and again and again and again when he traces his fingers over the crease of her hip, through curls and flesh to find her where she’s hottest for him.

Her response is a sweet shock. Robb had grappled so with his own demons, with stifling his own wants for her – he’d never thought to find her wet and greedy around his fingers as she gasps and clutches at his shoulders. It’s a surprise to find in her a mirror of his own need to claim her as his own, to bind her to him so inextricably that none could ever put them apart, no matter the circumstances. He’s sought her so long that he grew to despair ever finding her again, that he cursed himself for ever losing her in the first place. He should have come for her. He should have saved her.

His guilt adds to his need to make his tongue rough, his fingers insistent. The pleasure he gives her is an inadequate balm for the wounds she’s suffered, but it’s all he has and he gives it unreservedly, reveling in the shiver of her response to him. It’s a response he’d wanted, one he dreamed of, sleep unable to keep the barriers he built in place, and he wonders now if perhaps that was some small part of what kept him from abandoning all to come for her when he could, before she disappeared from King’s Landing to send him sick with worry and regret. His lips are a mute apology, his fingers in her cunt a silent plea for forgiveness.

He knows her too well, stranger that he pretends to be, knows all the spots where she’s most sensitive and responsive, from when he tickled her as a little girl, driving her to squirming fits of laughter. He finds those spots with his tongue now, the slope from neck to shoulder, the curve of her ribs, the tender inside of her thigh. He noses over the last as he sinks to his knees, nudges her legs apart with his shoulders to put his mouth where his fingers had been. He’s dreamed of the taste of her for so long, he’s denied his need for her so strenuously; giving in to it now makes him shake, makes him work his tongue up inside her to taste the depths of her and make her his, only his.

“Beautiful,” he says, swirling his tongue, seeking and giving and learning her, sucking upon her as if savoring a ripe peach. “So sweet.”

She comes more quickly than he’d have thought, long before he could have enough of her, her hands bracing on his shoulders as her knees buckle, a ghosting sound twisting from deep in her chest to fill his ears as her pleasure fills his mouth. _I’m sorry,_ he says, not with words but with soothing strokes of his tongue, drawing every last bit of pleasure from her, wedding himself to her in the only way he can, _I love you and I’m so very sorry_. He holds her up, holds his tongue still against her, and he knows it will never be enough. Nothing he could do ever would be.

“You are still clothed, milord,” she says when she can breathe again, her voice as unsteady as her legs.

“Would you have me otherwise?” he asks, licking the remnants of her from his lips, closing his mouth around his fingers to suck them clean of her. She moans at the sight of it, her whole body jerking, and he nearly spends in his breeches then and there.

“I would see you,” she whispers, tugging him up to stand, pulling at the laces of his doublet, and the game goes on, they wrap the veil around them one more time.

They do not sleep. The night will be short, far too short, and he senses she knows it as well as he. Tomorrow the veil will be ripped away, tomorrow they will resume their old lives and this will be only a fever dream between them. So tonight they keep their eyes open, they keep their hearts’ desires. He takes her over and over, feels her tight around his cock, so tight and sweet that he thinks he loses his mind.

They come together with increasing urgency when the sky turns to velvet outside the window, lightening before the coming dawn. He pushes deep within her, surrounding her where she holds herself on hand and knee, pressing his chest to her back and nosing aside her hair to set his teeth to her nape when he spends, as if they’re mating wolves, as if he could claim her as his with cock and tooth and nail.

The morrow comes, as all morrows must. She stands before the window as he dresses, watching the sky turn from night to blue to white, one pale hand holding the curtains aside as she stares through the rippled glass.

“Robb,” she says, dropping all pretense. It’s the first time he’s heard his name from her in a lifetime, and it sounds sweet and curious and sad. “Robb, let’s not go back yet. Not just yet.” She turns to him, looks at him with eyes so soft and sweet and dear they could break what’s left of his heart. The kohl is smudged almost away, her cat’s eyes gone, and it makes her look young and almost bruised. “Let’s stay here for a few more hours, please.” He lets her draw him back to the bed, lets her pull his head to her breast and his hand to her cunt. Maybe soon he’ll regret that he allows it, that he surrenders to it and fits his mouth to hers, draws upon her lips like to swallow her soul and keep it inside him forever. Maybe he’ll regret all of it, but not yet. Not for a few more hours yet.


End file.
